Day 97

“I think you’re going to be famous, but only after your death,” said my Mum.

Like Billy the Kid then. Small, dapper, friendly, unappreciated in his own lifetime, and gunned down by a lawmaker.

Now another one thinks he should be pardoned, but the old lawmaker’s ancestors think would represent a defamation of character to Pat Garrett.

But he was a loveable scamp. Murderous, but loveable. His Wikipedia page has what is surely one of the site’s greatest passages. We join The Kid on the verge of execution, tangling with Pat Garrett’s deputy, James Bell:

“McCarty [Billy] slipped off his manacles at the top of the stairs, struck Bell over the head with them, grabbed Bell’s own gun, and shot him with it.”

“Whatever happened, Bell staggered into the street and collapsed, mortally wounded. Meanwhile, McCarty scooped up Ollinger’s 10-gauge double barrel shotgun and waited at the upstairs window for Ollinger, who had been across the street with some other prisoners, to come to Bell’s aid. As Ollinger came running into view, McCarty leveled the shotgun at him, called out “Hello Bob!” and killed him. The Kid’s escape was delayed for an hour while he worked free of his leg irons with a pickax and then the young outlaw mounted a horse and rode out of town, reportedly singing. The horse returned two days later.”

Re-read the first two sentences of that. The kid murders two people by different means, and makes a witty remark. All of which, it turns out, he achieved while he was still wearing leg irons that needed to be hacked off with a pickaxe.

No one much knew about Billy the Kid until Pat Garrett wrote a kiss and tell story, claiming to have finished him off once and for all.

Which is what I’m going to need someone to do for me, if my Mum’s prediction is to come true.

5.23: The person doing the shipping forecast has the same name as my aunt. I hope she’s moonlighting as a meteorologist. Lazy to choose her own name as a pseudonym, bu maybe she thought no-one would notice if she only did it at 5am. Well, look on my works ye masquerading aunts and despair.

6.57: You’re trying my patience, Stuart. I’ve taken to coming for your irregularly to try and disorient your senses, like a terrorist trying to break down the resolve of a hostage. But you’re a tough nut to crack. You like to play little games like pretending not to understand the process of attaching a file to an email, and then, when I cajole you into doing it, you magically forget how to perform basic functions like scrolling down a page. But don’t think I don’t know what you’re up to, you demented old bonesack. And be nice to me, or I’ll start shovelling powdered Tamazapam into one of your grinning, obsolete slots. And when the nurse finds you, it’ll look like an accident.